


Four walls // Yusuke's Birthday 2021//

by GreyPigeon



Series: Godspeed You! Blue Emperor [4]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Child Neglect, Corporal Punishment, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, First Kiss, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Improper touching, Masturbation, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Harm, Stockholm Syndrome, physical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28915176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyPigeon/pseuds/GreyPigeon
Summary: Character study of Yusuke Kitagawa, from age 5 to 16, following the prompts for Yusuke's Birthday 2021 event. The work revolves around Yusuke living in the atelier, his relationship with his mother, Madarame, other pupils, and himself.
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke & Kitagawa Yusuke's Mother, Kitagawa Yusuke & Madarame Ichiryusai, Kitagawa Yusuke & other pupils
Series: Godspeed You! Blue Emperor [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743862
Comments: 51
Kudos: 25
Collections: Yusuke's Birthday, persona fic recommendations





	1. Locked Away

**~*~**

**Yusuke age 5**

The door of the shack flung open and Madarame stormed inside, hauling a whining, crying kid behind him. Other pupils, gathered around a low table in the living room, all turned towards them - the movie, board game, snacks and idle sketches forgotten.

“I can’t believe you did this, _again_ ,” Madarame snapped, pulling at the kid’s hand, making him trip over his own chubby feet. “You embarrassed me in front of the curator, you can’t behave like that when we are in town! Can’t you see how important the meeting was?!”

The kid stumbled on the stairs and Madarame had to stop to help him up. “But Papa,” the boy sobbed with a shaky hiccup, “But Papa…! I don’t… I don’t want to…! I won't, I won't, Papaaa!!!” A modulated, hysterical cry shook the corridor. The pupils peeked out of the common area, wondering why Yusuke was crying this time.

“You will stop shouting at once,” Madarame stopped abruptly, leaned in and shook the tiny shoulders. “I had enough of your shouting for today! You’re going to the room, and you’re going to stay there until you calm down!”

Instead of decreasing, the cries rose a pitch higher - Yusuke noticed the use of the phrase ‘the room’ instead of ‘his room’. He dug his heels into the ground, stopping in the middle of the stairs. 

“PAPA!!!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, making Madarame wince. 

“I am _not_ your Papa,” the man pointed out cruelly, “ _You don’t have a Papa._ I’m your _Sensei_. How are you supposed to call me?” 

Yusuke froze on the steps, still blubbering and hiding his face from view. “...Sensei,” he answered sheepishly, rubbing at his face, pushing his small fingers into his wet, red eyes. “Sensei, I don’t wanna…”

“I don’t care what you want right now. You had your chance to speak clearly, but you chose to be a naughty boy. Wasn’t it how it went? Am I lying? No. So now you’re going to the room!”

Another wave of screams and weeping followed, and the two of them disappeared on the first floor. The pupils lingered about for a while longer until they heard a loud sound of the door slamming shut, and then another, quieter thud - the door to Madarame’s study. Then some smaller, dull bangs, the sound of tiny fists and weak kicks against the wood.

They slowly went back to the living room, returning to their movie. The laughter and lightweight conversations died down completely, though; no one wanted to attract Madarame’s attention. 

This was not an outlandish occurrence, so they weren’t too alarmed. Sensei’s kid rubbed him the wrong way sometimes. Yusuke would demand to pick him up and hold him for hours, or suddenly cry for no reason, making himself sick; very often he’d go completely silent or even dissociate, refusing to answer when spoken to or indeed move at all. He’d be troublesome outside of the house, behaving as if he was scared of people, cars or animals passing by. One day he threw a fit in the building of the magistrate. If something like this happened today in front of a museum curator or another art world VIP, the pupils could picture Sensei getting angry.

The dull banging on the door died down gradually. They could still hear Yusuke’s protracted crying; one of the boys grabbed a remote and turned the volume up. 

Yusuke would just have to wait for Sensei’s anger to simmer down, which could take longer or shorter, depending on what he did this time. He’d be alright, there was nothing physically happening to him, after all; just a little time-out. Madarame would bring him down for supper. 

It’s not like Yusuke was a problem child or something. Not really. The older pupils, and the ones who had siblings, unanimously said that Yusuke is not particularly difficult to handle. He was just… a bit needy. And a little weird. But then, losing a mother at the age of three would probably do it to a child.

If anybody had anything other to say about a five-year-old being locked for hours in a small, windowless room with just the heater for furnishing, they kept it to themselves. Their parents - those who knew about it - didn’t find it proper to react. They knew Yusuke had no other place to go anyway. He had a roof over his head, food on his plate and the most respected teacher he could ask for, one who will teach him all about the trade and leave him a real, proper legacy when his day comes. So would he really be better off in the system? They didn’t think so.

Yusuke would be alright. He just needed to grow up a little, then it would get easier. And Madarame was a good man; his reputation preceded him.

**~*~**

Inside the small room, Yusuke was curled at the doorstep, crying his little eyes out. He couldn't understand what it was that he did wrong. All he wanted was to just _go home_. He was tired, he was hungry, he was bored, he just wanted to curl with his mascot and watch Featherman instead of driving somewhere in Papa’s big car again. He hated going through endless ‘brefings’ and ‘confences’ he couldn’t understand, walking miles through the empty, echoing halls of art galleries, seeing all those people, people, people… 

People looking down at him curiously from the heights of their long adult legs, like he was a cute monkey or a peculiar pet. People raising their eyebrows at him disapprovingly, surprised or displeased that he’s there at all. People in dark suits, dismissive, boastful and loud, wearing arrogant smiles and suffocating smell of cigarettes. Papa pulling at his tiny hand, irritated that he’s not keeping up.

Beating at the door wouldn’t do any good. Crying would only make his tummy ache more. Asking to be let out wouldn’t even be heard. 

Yusuke sniffled. He wiped the tears and snot into one of his sleeves. At least he was in a quiet place, and away from those people; at least he was back in the place he knew. It was still bad, and he hated this room, but… 

He glanced around. There was a chair sitting next to the radiator and a knitted blanket on top of it, folded neatly in a cube. Whimpering, he crawled to it, pulled the blanket down and nestled on the floor. Curling like a small rabbit in the corner of the room felt comforting, so he did just that; he felt lost in the vast swathes of the thick brown wool. 

He wished he had his white bear to keep him company. He could hug it. He could hide his face in the white fur. The white bear, no, a polar bear, Papa… _Sensei_ said. A polar bear with black beads for eyes and nose. How did he get that bear…? Did somebody give it to him? It felt like the bear had always been there, for as long as he could remember.

Its fur was no longer white because he hugged it so much and got it stained way too many times. It was probably more in tune with the walls of this room, dull and ashen from all the years of collecting dust. Yusuke stared at the ceiling, imagined the bear crossing the landscape of snowy hills, imagined himself hugging it, grabbing the fur with his small hands. 

The bear would shield him against the icy wind in the warmth of his thick coat and would carry him somewhere safe, somewhere friendly, to the edge of the world if it had to. Somewhere he would have his crayons, and he could play in his futon until late, and where other bears and squirrels would bring him raisins in chocolate. The bear would have a blue bandana around its neck, and Yusuke would sleep under it in whatever place the bear would carry him to; it could be a cave… with icicles for decoration... or an igloo. And the polar bear would have a pipe. Who said bears couldn’t smoke? But of course, it wouldn’t be that awful, acrid smell of the cigarettes. It would smell nice. Like a bonfire, pine trees and sweet marshmallows.

Yusuke tangled his limbs in the blanket, scrunching it up in front of him, imitating the way he would grip his marching bear. Riding on its back through the kingdom of snow.

Yusuke kept staring until his eyes drooped and his small body started to feel heavy. The tears finally stopped flowing, but his nose was blocked completely, so he was breathing through his mouth. He gulped down too much at once, and too abruptly; it was making him dizzy, but he kept doing it. His vision was swimming weirdly. _When it starts doing that, you will sleep soon._ He wiped his chin from drool. 

_Sensei won’t be coming,_ he thought. _I’m stuck here again._

Curling a little tighter in his blanket, Yusuke closed his eyes. He imagined the warm cave again. _You’re fine. You’re sleeping in the cave. The bear is out, looking for food; you have to wait, but then there will be dinner. Just sleep. Sleep in the cave. Be good._

_Be a good boy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, there. Watch a soviet [dobranocka](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8yyz4COrH8)
> 
> A friend sent it to me when we were discussing this story and now it's stuck in my brain. 
> 
> Also, huge thanks to [NoonoosKitchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoonoosKitchen/pseuds/NoonoosKitchen) for the discussion about the Ainu people, I think it had somewhat influenced this piece.


	2. Dead of Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere thank you to [Crystalline Ace ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallineAce)for beta reading! 
> 
> Also, a kind bow to [Hanamuraki ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanamuraki) for a beneficial discussion about Madarame's mistress. 
> 
> I really appreciate your help and I feel really thankful that you help me grow as a writer.^^

**~*~**

**Yusuke age 7**

2 AM, dead of night, and Etsuko could not sleep. She tossed and turned, pushing the pillows around and kicking the comforter; as much fun as the evening had been, maybe she entertained one glass too many of the Spanish rosé Madarame brought. Her bright, flirtatious mood dissolved into pensiveness, then to tiresome waiting for the headache to relent, which was... apparently not happening. Oh, and he snored! How loud Madarame could snore. Such a pain.

“For the love of God, Ichiryusai!” She muttered in annoyance and tossed the pillow on the floor. She needed a glass of water. Throwing on a frilly, purple dressing gown she slipped out of the bedroom and went downstairs to the spacious kitchen.

She noticed the lamp in the living room was still on. Must have been the kid. She managed to completely forget about him because he was so quiet and there were… other things to attend to. But now the memory returned - a small, thin child with a schoolbag which seemed too heavy for him. It ruined her mood even more, and now she couldn’t just gulp down a pill and go back to sleep, she had to check on the unwelcome guest. What was Madarame thinking, bringing the brat here? The fact that they were sleeping together didn’t mean she would be babysitting for free, no, Sir.

A small sound of a door closing and small feet pattering through the corridor captured her attention. Unnaturally big, hungry eyes, ardent amidst the pale face, lit bright like beacons before the boy noticed her and bolted. 

“Why are you not sleeping?” Etsuko entered the living room. The boy was sitting on the couch, both hands wrapped around his middle. “What is it? Does your tummy ache?” The kid gave her a brief scowl and nodded.

She came closer, reaching to touch his forehead. He flinched away but then froze in place as if he recalled he’s not supposed to do that.

“You don’t have a fever,” she said. “Did you eat dinner?”

The kid was silent for a while. “...Yes,” he croaked. He just sat there, all rigid and fearful, even after she took the hand away. Etsuko recalled an almost-full plate sitting on the countertop she had seen in the kitchen and frowned.

“I’ll bring you some hot tea, that will help your stomach.” She said after another awkward silence, and the kid just nodded.

When the mug of steaming hot, unsweetened brew was sitting in front of him, Etsuko reclined on the opposite couch and glued an expectant look on the boy. He reached for the mug, but recoiled, as it was probably still too hot. He huddled closer, leaving the tea on the table to cool a little. 

Etsuko watched her perfect, crimson manicure for a while. The kid didn’t move.

“Did you try to sleep? The couch should be comfortable,” she spoke with the gentlest tone in her repertoire.

“I hate it,” the kid muttered. She raised her eyebrows, surprised.

“Why? It’s a great leather couch. Ichiryusai always chooses the best quality.”

The kid scowled. “It’s cold,” he blew air on the mug. “It’s slippery. I hate it.”

Etsuko pursed her lips. She glanced over to the side, where a small, dishevelled, dirty mascot of a polar bear was sitting. It used to be white back in the day. There was a book lying next to it, and she discerned the title with some difficulty in the poor light of the side lamp. 

“What are you reading? Japanese tales and legends?”

“I’m sorry for taking the book,” the boy mumbled.

“That’s quite alright.” She frowned. “Drink your tea. What were you reading about?”

The kid sipped at the tea, put it down and reached for the bear to place him on his lap. He folded himself over the mascot, hiding his face from view.

“Ishikawa Goemon,” he muttered eventually. Not a very nice topic for a bedtime story, Etsuko thought, thinking of all the boiling and screaming and decapitating… the kid could use some supervision.

She fiddled with the lace edge of her nightgown. “Well, he was… like Robin Hood, right? A righteous bandit. Believed to be a model parent, too, he tried to save his son at all cost, didn’t he?” She sent the boy a feigned smile, trying to underline the positive among the gruesome. “He might have been a thief, but he tried his best to be a good father. That’s a nice moral out of it, no?”

“It’s just a stupid story,” the kid spoke, still unmoving on top of his bear, not looking at her. “It wouldn’t happen. I hate it, anyway.”

“Well, it’s not very nice of you to say that, is it.” Etsuko scoffed, arranging the frills of her purple wrapper so that they would sit nicely on her wide sleeve, cascading down her thigh. “Ichiryusai is also doing his best to provide and care for you. Like Goemon. Shouldn’t you be a bit more grateful?”

The kid shuddered, then dropped the bear and lurched under the coffee table, clamping both hands over his mouth. A dry retch shook his tiny body; Etsuko knelt in front of him in alarm, put a hand on his thin, knobbly spine. Not knowing what else to do, she started stroking his back soothingly, shushing; the kid was obviously unwell, but what the hell was wrong with him?

“Oh my, we’ll get you to a doctor in the morning, now shush, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she kept repeating benign nonsense, purely on instinct. “It’s alright. Stay here, I’ll get you something for nausea, okay? I’ll be right back - just to the kitchen and back. Stay here.”

The boy just whimpered, curled into himself more. The small hands fell from his mouth to the carpet uselessly, and he took a couple of deep, measured breaths, trying to keep the tea down. Etsuko grimaced; the boy had such a sickly complexion in the artificial light of the evening lamp. His shoulder blades stuck out so bad. She took the filthy polar bear in two fingers and passed it to him; he latched onto it, pressed it tightly to his chest.

Cursing quietly, Madarame’s mistress dug through the medicine cabinet, more annoyed by the minute - she couldn’t find what she was looking for. She used to have something suitable for children, but where was it now? Darnation. She didn’t ask for this, that clueless idiot just had to tag the kid along, what was he thinking? How was that _romantic_? Oh, and why was it that the man could sleep sweetly when she was awake in the middle of the night, expected to take care of a brat who wasn’t even her own? 

When she finally returned to the living room with a small brown bottle of medicine, the kid was asleep. She sighed wearily; though he was lying on the carpet, maybe it was better not to wake him so that he could catch some rest. 

She pulled a small fluffy blanket from the closet in the corridor. She covered the boy with it, left a small pillow within his reach and brought a plastic bowl from the bathroom, in case he was feeling sick again. 

She hesitated on the stairs. 

No. It wasn't her kid. Not her responsibility. Gathering her silk frilly robe in hands, she climbed the steps and went straight to the bedroom.

Let Madarame worry about his foster son. He took him in for a reason, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having thought and speculated about Yusuke's past ever since vanilla P5, my best guess would be that he suffered from anaclitic depression, or as it is sometimes called hospitalism or infant depression. I'm still digging through the source literature to have a better understanding of it, but it seemed a close hit, and way too important to omit.


	3. Censorship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the tags, CW for corporal punishment (just in mention.) Also, I'm hinting at Madarame's unsavoury impulses, (I won't be expanding on them here) but it should be totally safe to read and you're also free to interpret it how you wish.
> 
> Beta-reading and essential corrections by [Crystalline Ace ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallineAce). You have my gratitude :)

**~*~**

**Yusuke age 11**

“What are you trying to do?” Madarame’s voice was amused as he beheld his foster son. He was sitting in front of the easel with his eyes closed and fists pressed to his temples so hard that his nails dug into his palms. Madarame reached for one of them and held it gently, watching the small half-moon circles with mirth. “What is it? You can tell me.”

“I wanted to draw something from memory,” the boy answered, his voice sullen. “And... I can’t remember.”

“Usually I find that looking at reference material helps.” Madarame patted his hand and let it fall on the kid’s lap. He started to browse through a stack of envelopes he was holding, reading the addresses and names.

“What are these?” Yusuke asked.

“Oh… a heating bill, tax and revenue notice… so on, so forth. What were you trying to remember?”

Yusuke looked down. “...My mum.”

Madarame froze with the letter in front of his face. He gave the boy a long, scrutinizing stare, saying nothing.

“I… I know she had long, black hair, and I thought she was pretty… I always remember her in red. This dress she wore, or the blouse. But I can’t remember her voice, or… how she used to act… Did she sing to me? I sometimes think I can recognize the melody, but then maybe I’m imagining it. I wish I knew… I should remember, shouldn’t I?” Yusuke glanced up looking for an answer or approval. Madarame said nothing, and Yusuke sighed deeply as if it only confirmed that he was, indeed, a bad son for not remembering his own mother. “I just can’t remember anything, Sensei.”

“...Don’t you dream of her?”

Madarame’s voice was gentle and absolutely serious. Yusuke turned to him, grateful for the attention, and glued his grey eyes into Madarame’s face. 

“No, Sensei,” he answered truthfully, “I used to… But I don’t anymore. I would like to.”

Madarame smiled sadly. “That’s a shame. Dreams can be a valid resource, because you do remember, and more than you think, it’s just… you cannot consciously reach it.” The man put a warm, bony hand on Yusuke’s shoulder and squeezed there briefly. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will come to you, one day. Look forward to it.”

“But I wanted to paint her now,” Yusuke whined. “How should I do that if I don’t even know what she looked like?”

Madarame chuckled. “Oh, my boy. What she looked like is not the most important thing in all of this. Besides,” he cupped his cheek and angled his distressed face upwards, “To know that, you need but look into the mirror. You look a lot like her.” 

Madarame’s thumb moved slowly across his lower lip. The warm hand on his cheek shook a little before he hastily took it away.

Yusuke thought it weird, and Sensei’s face was so strange; but his attention was already on the envelopes. He sighed deeply, with a slow, meditative nod, like he always would when tired. Yusuke decided to just ignore the oddity in favour of a much more important question: “Do you have any photos of her, Sensei?”

Madarame straightened his back, cleared his throat; he looked back on the envelopes and started to tear one open with a fingernail. 

“The scarce photos that I have are not going to help you, Yusuke. The figure is too small, captured from too far away, the visage unclear. It would take a painter much more proficient than you to get it right.”

“But can I try? If I could just see them, maybe I could…”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? You’re _eleven_ , you’re in grade school. As much as I can see you have talent, it’s not yet skill. You wouldn’t do her image justice.”

“But Sensei, I—”

“—I won’t waste time jumping on ladders and digging through the attic on your whim, Yusuke!” Irritation rang in Madarame’s voice. “I have enough work as it is! And now this on top of it,” he struck the letter with an open palm. Yusuke had no idea what the letter meant, but it couldn’t have been anything good, because it had this funny seal at the top of the page.

Yusuke fidgeted in his seat. “A bill?” He asked. Those were nothing nice. They costed money.

“Yes, Yusuke, a bill.” Madarame’s lips pursed tight. “And I have to earn something soon to pay it. On a different note, do you know who left the back door open yesterday? I checked it this morning, it was left ajar. The kitchen was all drafty and the flies got in.”

Yusuke’s eyes darted to the sides. “It was me, Sensei. I’m sorry,” It was actually Shota, but Madarame didn’t have to know that. “I forgot… I’ll be more careful, I promise!” Yusuke said quickly, seeing The Frown descending upon the tall forehead. 

“What were you even doing in the back yard yesterday evening?” Madarame scowled. 

“I wanted to play with Higemaru,” Yusuke bit his lip. Madarame blinked at him, not understanding. “The cat came back,” he supplied, and Madarame bridled, exasperated.

“ _The cat came back_?! Yusuke, when will you grow up? You can’t leave the door open, do you want someone to rob the place?”

Yusuke curled into himself. “...I’m so sorry, Sensei,” he whispered.

Madarame visibly fumed, but luckily didn’t say anything else on the matter. Yusuke sat there on the stool, knowing he can’t go back to painting as long as Sensei is talking to him - that would be very rude. But Madarame just stood there, going through the letters with a stern look on his face, ignoring Yusuke completely. The boy observed his mouth. It seemed to press tighter and tighter with every opened letter; more bad news? More bills? Yusuke squirmed in his seat, wincing slightly at the itching. His bum was still a bit sore from the scolding he earned in the morning. He thought briefly that he could paint standing; yeah, he could try this later... 

Eventually, all letters had been opened. Madarame sighed. 

“You would do well to help me,” he said in a more normal tone, a familiar note of urgency seeping into it. He looked around the room. “I have three canvases to prepare. In fact, you could also arrange the stencils, I was using them last night and they need cleaning. And tidy up your room. You’re old enough to keep it decent, aren’t you? You’ll do it after dinner. Come,” he turned to the door, but seeing that Yusuke didn’t move, he stopped. “What is it?”

With his voice suddenly stuck in his throat, Yusuke pointed to the easel awkwardly.

“Is it for school?” Yusuke shook his head. “Then what seems to be the problem?”

The boy swallowed hard. He got dizzy. Why did he get dizzy?

“I just— um. I wanted to... “ He trailed off. “I will be right there, Sensei.” 

Madarame turned away abruptly and slid the door shut. Yusuke almost tripped on his own feet, jumping from the stool and running behind him. 

“Sensei!” He called, catching up with him in the middle of the corridor. “Sensei, wait, are you angry with me?” He clutched to the wide sleeves of Madarame’s haori, stopping him in his tracks.

Madarame stared at him, brow furrowed.

“I’m not angry at you.” He paused. “I simply thought that I could rely on you, of all people. I’m _disappointed_.” 

He moved Yusuke to the side and disappeared in his study, leaving him alone in the dusty, shabby corridor. Yusuke felt a sudden cry clutching at his throat; somehow, this hurt much more than the spanking.


	4. Cloaked in Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw:// physical violence, angst, mental anguish

  
**~*~**

**Yusuke age 14**

There was a quiet, shy knocking at the door to his room. Yusuke ignored it at first, but the person was clearly still standing there, waiting to be let in. Yusuke sighed; he honestly thought the merry band of teenagers, celebrating the birthday of one of Madarame’s pupils, would leave him alone for today. 

“Yusuke, can I come in? I brought you a slice of cake,” a delicate female voice spoke. 

“Please,” Yusuke called, resigning himself to an unwelcome company.

The girl slid the door open; she came in holding a fat slice of Black Forest cake, peppered with several candied cherries and topped with an enormous dollop of whipped cream. Yusuke’s mouth watered _instantly_.

“Are you not going to join us?” She asked, holding a plate gingerly. “It’s my last day in the atelier, I had hoped to spend some time with you, you know.”

Yusuke tore his eyes away from the dessert. “I have work to do,” he muttered, lifting his brush again. The girl put the cake on his desk, scattered with albums, sketches and detail studies, and approached the easel in curiosity.

“Background details?” She asked, watching as he quickly added little trees and bushes to the horizon line, filling the empty slopes of the fields with realistic details. He was transforming the plain landscape into a bucolic fairytale, in a matter of minutes. “For Sensei?”

“For practice,” Yusuke muttered.

The girl sighed, clasped both hands in front of her in obvious unease. She didn’t seem like she wanted to leave and rejoin her own birthday party; she kept watching him as he worked instead.

“Yumeko,” Yusuke finally folded. “Thank you so much for the cake. I’m grateful. But I won’t be coming down.”

“Are you not going to wish me a happy birthday?” She asked silently, not looking at him. Yusuke sighed, put the brush away; as much as he’d prefer to work, his focus was broken, anyway. He straightened on the wobbly stool; his bruised and battered left arm, which he kept in a sling, was unnerving him endlessly. It felt heavy and uncomfortable.

“You know I wish you all the best,” he spoke softly, trying to curb his irritation.

“But you disagree with me leaving,” Yumeko pouted. “You think it’s a mistake to leave the atelier.” 

Yusuke sighed; if he only could dissolve, disappear, turn into the very morning mist he intended to paint all over the landschaft he was finishing. Why did he have to have this conversation with her? It was pointless, she would move out anyway, it was only making him angry and he really didn’t want to argue now. It felt wrong. Tomorrow she would pack and go through the door to leave the atelier forever, to start on whatever new, misguided path she had chosen; her last day here should be a happy one so that at least she’d take a good memory with her. 

He rubbed his brow with his healthy hand, leaving a small smudge of greenish paint on his skin.

“Yes, I think it’s a mistake. Yes, I think you would be better off learning under Madarame. Yes, I think you should just suck it up and only focus on nurturing your talent. You have the best chance of becoming a great artist under Sensei’s guidance.” Yusuke’s knee started to jerk nervously; he caught himself, consciously stopped the habit by massaging the tense muscle in his thigh. He glanced up at her, uncertain; his words came out harsher than he intended.

Yumeko was mulling over his words, going red on the face.

“Are you angry at me?” She blurted out; Yusuke observed the crimson blush climbing up her cheeks with stoic calm.

“I think I am, yes,” he answered truthfully. 

Yumeko blushed even harder, her fists clenched. “But why?” She asked, the pitch of her voice rising into a bit of an unpleasant, false note.

“I think you’re going to waste your talent under a less skilled teacher.” 

“What does it matter? It’s not like I can paint like you, anyway.” Her voice wavered slightly. Yusuke sucked in a breath; true, she wasn’t on his level yet, but she was talented.

“...Your style is good,” he said awkwardly, not reacting to the compliment. “You have every chance in the world. You only need to want it.”

Yumeko looked down, stared at her own clasped hands for a long while. Finally, she sniffled and wiped at her eyes quickly; she gave him a small smile, obviously putting on a brave face.

“Are you going to miss me?” She laughed nervously. “Even... only a little?” 

Yusuke forced himself to smile. “I think I will. You were a calming presence.” _Except for today, that is._

“Are we going to stay friends?” Her eyes were glistening, and she was looking at him way too expectantly. Yusuke sighed; he didn’t want to disappoint her, but life was life - they would both be very busy, Sensei was giving him more and more paintings to work on, there was school, and extracurricular courses and they wouldn’t even meet each other in class. So the chances were rather slim. Yumeko seemed to understand his silence correctly.

“Well, I’m going to miss you very, very much.” She said finally, and Yusuke could hear her voice swelling with tears. This he _definitely_ didn’t want, crying women were making him squirm, there was something deeply disturbing in seeing a girl cry. It was horrible, nauseating, almost. Yusuke desperately wracked his brain for a change of topic.

“What did you get as your birthday gift, anyway? I heard excitement from downstairs.” 

“Oh,” she stirred, taken by surprise and luckily torn away from whatever sad thoughts were billowing in her head. “My parents bought me a binocular.” 

“A binocular?” Yusuke repeated in genuine surprise. “Are you interested in the sciences?”

“No, it’s for painting, actually.” She fixed her hair. “Just a gadget, really, basically a big magnifying glass, but… I could examine a lot of different textures and items up close, and also work on precise detailing. Or recreation.”

“Recreation?” Yusuke frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Art conservators use professional microscopes of this type. To clean off layers of dirt, or remove peeling varnish. I could learn how to do that.”

“You… you want to be an art conservator.” Yusuke stared at her as if she had grown two heads. “With your talent and skillset.” 

“Maybe,” Yumeko crossed both arms on her chest. “My father says it’s a great idea. He is going to support me no matter what. But he also says that art conservators have to have equal skills to the artists themselves, and their work is important, it preserves beautiful things for future generations; it’s a beautiful service, he says.” 

Yusuke couldn’t believe his ears. “It’s derivative. It’s an imitation. It’s not real art.” He didn’t even bother to hide the animosity in his voice this time. 

“I think it can be,” she took a step back. “And it’s useful. It’s beneficial and good. Look, someone has to preserve the Mona Lisa,” she shrugged with a defensive smile, but Yusuke didn’t laugh.

“Art is not meant to be utilitarian. Art is meant to be singular, meaningful, disturbing. Beauty lies in rarity, and real art is like the Sayuri, it’s like The Pyramids, it will collapse one day! It’s value lies in the fact that it cannot be repeated or faked,” he gesticulated wildly and winced as his arm responded in dull throbbing. “Art influences the minds and hearts of people who live next to it, within its time. What you want to do is not create art, but cheat on it!”

“Cheat?!” Yumeko gasped. “Yusuke, why are you so angry? I don’t understand why you’d say that!”

“Because you’re not only leaving Sensei when he’d done so much for you, you’re also betraying his ideals!” Yusuke stood up abruptly.

“I’m not betraying anything! I’m looking out for myself!” Yumeko shouted. “I will be working for the good of the people, making it possible for the thousands of beautiful pieces to see the light of day, and I will be able to make a living! Repay my parents for supporting me all this time! Help them when they’re old!”

“So it’s about money, then?!” Yusuke bridled. “If you wanted money, you should have become a dentist!”

Yumeko’s eyes started to burn. “Oh, so you’re okay with starving every day? With getting ill from cold and hunger? With not getting any time off, or proper sleep, or hot water in the bathroom?”

“You’re so shallow, you’re silly to want that, you—”

“—With stressing over every last brushstroke, making everything _perfect_ , or else Sensei will hit you?! You’re okay with him almost breaking your arm?!”

“He did no such thing!”

“You didn’t fall from the stars! He was right behind you!”

“You’re lying!” 

“I’m NOT!!!” Yumeko yelled at the top of her lungs. “I never lied to you! I like you!”

Yusuke flinched. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”

“I like you, so I don’t want you to be in pain, or ill, or unhappy! I care.” She suddenly went mellow, her voice dropped an octave and her face smoothed into motherly gentleness, as soft like the silk ribbons she had in her hair. “And you’re sick all the time, Yusuke. You skip school to work on paintings that Sensei takes away from you. What about your own paintings? What about your own future?” 

Yusuke stared at her, dumbfounded. He shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re spewing nonsense. I want you to leave my room.” 

Yumeko pouted again, her eyes lined with tears as she looked at him. Yusuke felt that horrible void gnawing at him again. _Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying._

“I’ll leave. I’ll leave tomorrow, for good. I won’t let my dream end in this shabby shack, I won’t let him hit me or starve me any longer, I won’t let him keep me away from my parents. My mum says I will not be able to have kids if he robs me of my health and works me to the ground!” 

Yusuke went pale. _What did she say…?_

“Get out,” he spat, sinking down on the stool in front of his easel. “Just get out. You’re a liar. You’re a horrible liar!”

Yumeko ran out crying, slamming the door shut.

**~*~**

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ Yusuke kicked his threadbare comforter and rolled on his side. She’s just so stupid. All of what she said, there’s no logic to it. Look at her, repeating stupid phrases her stupid parents put into her head. Rebelling against Sensei, when he’s done so much! Always there with his advice, with his time! Help with lessons on art theory? Of course! History of art? Free lectures! She had lodging for free, supplies, paints, anything! She got into the best courses because Sensei recommended her, she got museum entries, gallery admission anytime she wanted. Cram school, weekend classes, online seminars, all the artbooks here in the atelier, library fee covered, everything - he favoured her, he put so much faith in her! And she was alright with _leaving_ all that. 

She’d run to become an art conservator, to serve the people. Fraud. She’ll only serve herself, people will bring her old family heirlooms and she’ll cash in pretty well for mere residue removal. Well good, if she wants to put on an elegant lab coat, dab solvents on kitsch from some mouldy churches, or to renovate those chicken scratches on the walls of Ikaruga, let her! She’ll fit right in, won’t ever break a fingernail. 

Yusuke sat up abruptly. She’s a liar. Wrapped up in herself, her own entitlement and in the opinion of those uneducated parents of her. Liar, liar, liar. I’m not starving. I’m not ill. He did not push me down the stairs. 

And she doesn’t care. 

The hand throbbed angrily, sending jolts of pain from the elbow to his fingertips. He had caught himself on that hand, to avoid slamming his face into the surface of the landing. It was swollen ever since and hot to the touch.

At least it wasn’t his right hand. At least he could still work. If he couldn’t paint now, this would eat him from the inside. This will heal in no time, it was just he was such a klutz… Sensei did not, he couldn’t have…

_My mum says I will not be able to have kids if he robs me of my health and works me to the ground!_

Yusuke stared into the darkness of his room, sitting in his futon. He couldn’t get those words out of his head. 

Getting suddenly angry, he got up and left for the kitchen. He needed to put some ice on his elbow or he won’t be able to sleep at all. There were more important things than reminiscing about what Yumeko said in hysterics. Let her be what she wants to be, let her be this damn conservator and let her have a bunch of kids instead of realizing her full potential. 

Yusuke fumed, digging through the freezer. Apparently, some things could be more important to lesser minds than true art. Stupid. What could there be, more valuable than _real art_? If she really achieved that, if she really put everything into it and _achieved art_ , on the level of Van Gogh, or Pollock, or even Kurosawa, her name would be remembered. She could put her mind, her vision, her understanding of something forward, showing a facet of it that no one saw before. Making this thing all-new, all the richer, all the more important. Making a given thing sacred. Sharing this sacred knowledge, as Sensei does. _She_ could be Sensei one day. But no, she wanted a good meal and hot water in the tub.

Yusuke slapped some ice cubes wrapped in the kitchen rag onto his elbow. He sighed, sleepy and exhausted; he was a little dizzy. The ice helped, though, brought some relief to the overheated, sore joint. He really did a number on himself, didn’t he…?

_My mum says I will not be able to have kids._

“No,” Yusuke hissed as if burned and violently threw the rag into the sink. The ice clinked against the metal surface, and as he got up, his eyes were fiery embers in the dark. “No. It’s _nonsense_. No, it’s… NO!”

Yumeko was a liar, and her mother was an idiot. Yusuke did not know which crime was worse, that of fabricating lies or being so ultimately stupid that it was infectious, but he knew he wanted nothing to do with it. Not now, not ever. He pressed his lips together, straightened with dignity and walked out of the kitchen, forgetting about the ice. Sensei said that pain purifies and ennobles the one who is experiencing it, that it was important to know pain.

He strolled through the living room, littered with cardboard boxes, ready to be moved out tomorrow. Yumeko’s parents were coming in the morning to help her. Yusuke scoffed; luckily, he would not be witnessing that. He had classes.

He noticed a small, black box, with a paper bow still attached to the side. It was bulky, the inside of it padded with styrofoam. The binocular. Drawn to it as if by the force of a magnet, Yusuke approached it and took the device out of its protective box to take a closer look. He examined it carefully.

And then he dropped it on the floor.

The delicate lenses and pristine glass parts shattered into fantastical chaos, chunks and pieces of it springing in all directions. Pure entropy, conjured in an instant. It was beautiful. Something as purposeful, as professional as this very equipment, delicate and probably expensive, too - smothered in a matter of seconds, fractured beyond repair. It gave Yusuke strange, dark pleasure. Now, that held meaning! That was useful, didactic, even! A fleeting hope, an errant resolution, corrected by the gears of sensibility. It made Yusuke feel better.

He stepped over the mess and quietly went up to his bedroom. He slid the door close and laid down in his futon, suddenly much, much calmer. 

His arm did not hurt him anymore.


	5. Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw//: bullying, self-harm, depression.

**~*~**

**Yusuke age 15. Spring**

The garden looked _grey_. There was no way around it; grey, wilted grass, freshly liberated from its snowy cover, grey bark of the plum tree, barren and crooked. Grey stone pathway leading to a grey shack covered with sheet metal. Grey, dark gravel on the driveway in front of the house.

Yusuke hugged himself, rubbing down his arms. The borrowed fleece was too big on him, but at least it did the job. It was still cold; the first snowdrops emerged on the patch just under the fence, and Yusuke smiled to himself. Nature knew its way, and even if he did nothing for the bulbs for the entire year, they still bloomed. He reached down to touch the flowers, shy and modest, cuddled together with their petals down, bowing their beautiful heads to the ground; he wished he could put such purity into canvas without appearing too cheap, too obnoxious. Such things only ever rang true if they appeared spontaneously.

Sighing quietly, Yusuke calculated how much time and effort he would need to commit to gardening this year. It wasn’t explicitly necessary, but Madarame liked the garden, and it would be a tiny bit less depressing if there were any flowers or at least a decently pruned conifer at the front. The tools were there, Yusuke just needed to do it. A little bit of digging, to stir the frostbitten layers of the ground and prepare a cucumber patch. (Cucumbers were easy enough to grow.) Some sweeping, here and there. Also, while he was at it, the weeds had overruled the spaces between the stones on the path. It would be prudent to cut these out, leaving only the moss, so that it could spread nicely and fill in the gaps. Maybe a peony bush...? The peonies were so beautiful. Everything about them. The colour, the scent, the elongated, veined leaves, shaped like large droplets.

Yusuke shrugged, looking at the cloudy sky; it would rain soon. He could surely use a hand with this, at least with the pruning and burning of the branches. But the other pupils were burdened enough with schoolwork and practice. It was just a temporary home to them; none of them felt particularly obligated to upkeep the place. Wasn’t it the job of the host? (Or the host’s foster son?)

Yusuke sighed, finding no solutions for now. If possible, he would find some time to take care of it, but truth be told, it wasn’t very likely. Yusuke circled the back yard once, twice, kicked a stray stone away from his feet. Dragged himself to the front, peeked on the street. A lonely magpie sat on the gate, wagging the long tail in disdain.

“...so it's possible at last because Mister Weirdo isn’t here.”

The window to the practice room was open wide, to let the fresh air in. Merry voices floated towards him, followed by a snicker of laughter. Yusuke stepped away from the window, patted the ground with the tip of his shoe; the gravel parted in the wake of his foot, and he deepened the hole with his heel, listening.

“...Don’t say that.”

“He’s outside.”

“Doesn’t matter!”

“Oh come on! He grilled you for _two hours_. I thought I’m gonna shit myself. He sat here and kept lecturing you, and kept correcting you, and I could tell you won’t get it, because you’re not a fuckin’ Picasso and it’s too much, all at once.”

“...He just wanted me to understand the principle, is all. I asked for advice myself.”

“For _advice_ , not for the flames of the Inquisition, man,” another voice joined in. “He’s the worst. He wants to play the teacher, even if Hajime is better than him, just because he’s got the status. Like, come on, man. It’s not his place.” 

“Freak. The way he stares, no?”

“Yeah, he can be a lot. Remember that time Nakonahara was late for the lecture? Shit. As if I saw Madarame.”

“Yes! He’s practically the same!” 

“...And those speech mannerisms, gee,” a burst of mocking laughter followed. 

"Not only that. You should be careful what you say around him in general. He repeats everything to the old man."

“He’s acting like his right hand, why does he do that? To prove what, exactly?”

“...maybe because he’s not that good.”

“Yeah...”

"Yamaguchi said he’s in a phase. The abstract clogs his brain, he reeeally tries to appeal to the faculty, he goes on and on about modernity because it’s harder to score high in competitions with realistic representations. And he takes part in every single one, like, give me a break! Others want a chance too, and he's like 'Oh-ho, look at me, I know who Duchamp was.' Dude, _everyone_ knows who Duchamp was. You’re not _that_ original.”

“...Besides, Madarame’s name is gonna unlock a lot of doors for him. The rest of us plebs will have to work for it.”

“Aren’t you a bit harsh? Huh?” A single voice spoke up irritably. “He’s… really working hard. He enters every school event because he’s required to. He paints stuff for Sensei, too, and don’t tell me you don't see that, alright? Madarame is harder on him than on any one of us. And who’s the one to run errands, do the laundry, clean the house? Yusuke. So… yaknow.”

“Oooooh, Nakonahara has a crush...” 

“...Gay.”

“You like that, don’t you? That he scrubs the toilet, while you’re a resident student, eh? Natsuhiko, don’t be shy now! You may paint like shit, but if you give him some _proper_ attention, he may even be agreeable.” 

“What a couple.” 

“Shut up! Guys!”

“Ohoho, look, he blushed..!”

"Take your chances, maybe he's not that bossy in bed?"

“...Enough,” a stern, loud voice cut through the conversation, which ceased immediately. “I believe you all have something to do, so either focus on the job or go gossip somewhere else. This ruckus is distracting the hell out of me.”

“...Sorry, Hajime-senpai.”

Yusuke let his head fall back on the cold, rusty wall. The sky got blurry all of a sudden; the clouds swam in front of his eyes, mingling together, and the grey sky overcast with a watery film.

“...But hey, Nakanohara. Tell the truth.”

“...What.”

“You were fed up with him, weren’t you. At least a little.”

A pause. Nakanohara sighed, and Yusuke pictured him dropping his painting hand onto his lap. The brush would dangle from his grip, heavy and oversaturated because he would always put too much paint on it. 

“...yeah, I was.” 

Yusuke looked at the gravel at his feet; he felt nothing. 

**~*~**

A worn-out, plastic tray, filled to the brim with blackish shards of gravel and pebbles, was meticulously placed in front of the easel. Yusuke lowered the height of the wooden frame; he needed easy access. He put his paints on the floor, for ease of reach. A small container of water and a selection of brushes was neatly arranged on his right side, too. He had prepared everything.

He briefly considered taking his slacks off, but ultimately thought it would be weird. He raked both hands through his hair, taking a long, calming breath. 

Snowdrops. Innocence. Perseverance. Something pure, inherently strong, trusting its instincts enough to trudge through the dirt and rise from the grave of winter under the first feeble ray of hope. The first touch of the sun, very often misleading. After which, the fragile flower is left to bloom in the frost, windswept and overlooked, struggling for scarce nourishment in the rigid soil.

Yusuke knelt on the tray and felt his knees sink into the sharp gravel. It seemed fine at first, but the grits quickly dug into his flesh, even through the pants. _Allow_ _it_. _It’s good, it’s the way it should be_. ‘Pain will help you focus’, Madarame often said. 'Art has been the sole companion of the human soul, through all and every hardship.' Through war, sickness and grief, through unimaginable nightmares, people never stopped creating. Goya. Munch. Van Gogh. 

A quick outline of the painting appeared on the canvas, hastily sketched in pencil. Every sway of Yusuke’s body, every movement of the arm sent spikes of agony straight into his brain. The snowdrop sagged towards the ground; the leaves, thin like fingers, reached up to cradle the swooning head, too big for the stem. There was something oddly human in the way the green stalks resembled stooping shoulders, lanky arms.

Yusuke wiped the sweat away from his face. The cuff came off all wet, and he had to blink to see clearly. He reached for more green paint; the pain made him fold forward like he was shot. He scrambled to brace himself on the floor with his free hand as the gravel bits pierced the fabric of his slacks in several new spots. His heart was hammering in his chest, he could feel it pumping blood in rapid waves that reverberated in his chest cavity. 

“...Yusuke?”

He whipped his head up. Madarame stood at the doorstep.

The grey man came closer, a gentle, approving smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He reached out with both hands to cradle Yusuke’s face and wipe the tears away with the edge of his own sleeve.

“Very good, Yusuke. Very good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So just as a little piece of trivia, because Slavs are funny like that. Corporal punishment in schools is nothing new, it happened for the longest time all over the world. What you might not know, because it's kinda area-specific, is: the schools here would often use kneeling on hard yellow peas or pebbles, as a form of time-out. 
> 
> Trust me. Not fun.


	6. Honor Among Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw//: mentions of homophobia, self-harm, non-specified eating disorder, health issues, controlling and abusive behaviours, gaslighting, breach of privacy and secrecy of correspondence, Stockholm Syndrome kicking in. A veiled allusion to Madarame sexually abusing his students.
> 
> Also: budding sexuality, first crush (kind of...?) first kiss, confusion and pining, masturbation.
> 
> Immense gratitude to [Crystalline Ace ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallineAce)for poking at this chapter and making me see a lot of tiny details, which really made it click together. Thank you.

**~*~**

**Yusuke age 15, Autumn**

Quietly. Quietly, so that the floorboards wouldn’t creak. Quietly, so that Madarame’s snoring would cover the sound of footsteps. Just be quiet.

Quickly. Quickly so that the aching void wouldn’t spring to life again and fill the corridor with the sounds of a stomach grumbling. Quickly, so that it could be finally filled with something. 

Sneaking out of the room had become so much more difficult with time. Yusuke wasn’t a boy anymore, he wouldn’t be just chastised and let go. He was adolescent, almost a man now, and Sensei wouldn’t tolerate a shadow of indecency. The students could have more sinister purposes to stealth around the shack than to steal some food, so all of them were watched more closely. And it wasn’t just Madarame who did the watching - some of the pupils were insomniac. 

Yusuke slid down the stairs, carefully omitting all the creaky steps. He was taller and heavier now, more likely to make a telling noise or cast an errant shadow. He had to be smart. 

The shack had been his home for long enough to memorize all the potential obstacles, though; he avoided the slippery rug on the landing, glued his back to the wall to make sure he stayed in the shadow. Quickly. Quietly. Just grab it and go.

He wouldn’t have to do this if he had a chance to transfer his haul upstairs during the day when Madarame was out. But that was just his luck. The train had to run late, and when he got home Sensei had already returned. Yusuke hid a bundle of dry goods and a couple of energy drinks in the wooden chest in the mudroom, where Madarame kept the potatoes and root vegetables.

Yusuke didn’t dare to bring it to his room straight away. Sensei would often come in and sit down to read when Yusuke was working on school assignments. Once he’d finish the newspaper or any paperwork he had to go through, it wasn’t uncommon for him to just walk idly around Yusuke’s room, browsing through his sketches. He would check the references Yusuke had chosen and critique them. He’d look through the books Yusuke had brought from the library, commenting upon anything he didn’t like. He went through Yusuke’s desk a couple of times; he always monitored the mail. Yusuke preferred not to find out what Sensei would do upon the discovery of a loose floorboard and a secret stash of provisions. 

Yusuke understood the principle behind the fasting; he knew why Sensei required this of him. There were days he was really proud of himself, able to skip meals altogether or survive on a portion of onigiri only. His feeling of hunger wasn't always there, and his stomach worked funny in general - but the truth was, it was becoming an issue. 

He was growing, Yusuke supposed. His lanky, overly tall body needed more sustenance. Perhaps his bothersome symptoms - like fainting in class, or his blood test which came out skewed - could indeed be associated with ineffective nutrition, but Yusuke thought this was an exaggeration. It didn’t bother him _that_ bad. He got accustomed to it, like to the ill-fitting clothing, bad weather or the Art History teacher he hated. It was all mundane; he had no influence over it in the grand scheme of things. But the food… it was autumn now, it was getting colder, and thus harder to endure. Also, Yusuke noticed that he tended to be _more_ productive when _not_ thinking of food all the time.

Yusuke continued his careful trek down the hall. He passed the kitchen, entered the mudroom and bent over the chest to lift the creaky lid with the utmost precision - only to have the back door of the shack slammed open straight into his face. 

He fell to the ground with a dull thud, the chest lid shut loudly, and the person coming in tripped over him and dropped everything they were holding. The produce and some plastic packages scattered all over the floor.

“What the...?!” a terrified whisper-shout belonged to Hajime. “Kitagawa?!”

“Shut up,” Yusuke grunted, pressing down on the bridge of his nose. “You’ll wake the whole house...”

“Are you okay?!”

“Shut it, Ha—”

There were footsteps on the first floor, the sound of a door sliding open. Hajime leapt at Yusuke immediately, clamped a hand over his mouth and pulled him towards himself, pressing him flush to his chest. Yusuke saw red, but the footsteps started to come closer to the stairs, and the ancient wood creaked ominously - so he went perfectly still, scared to make a sound, and Hajime froze behind him, too. He gripped Yusuke tight, straining his ears to hear. They melted into the darkness of the mudroom, hoping that even if the person decides to come down, maybe they won’t spot them.

They heard a yawn, a long, disoriented sound. Someone gripped the railing and they both jumped, convinced that yes, this is it, that’s how they get discovered - but the footsteps retreated, shuffling through the corridor, in the opposite direction of the bathroom.

“Nakanohara,” Hajime mouthed. He must have recognized his voice. “Even if he heard, he’s not gonna tell.”

Yusuke blinked his understanding and Hajime took the hand away from his mouth, pressing a finger to his own lips; he didn’t need to say. Yusuke knew they had to keep quiet. Even if it really was only Nakanohara and his annoyingly small bladder, someone else could wake up.

Hajime breathed deeply, still listening. His breath was teasing Yusuke’s collarbone. He tried to stay calm, but his heart was fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird. Yusuke didn’t know if it was because of the adrenaline rush, the lingering pain after being hit by the damn door or the unsettling closeness of a hard, warm body behind him. Hajime still kept Yusuke’s shoulders in a firm grip and clearly didn’t intend to let go.

Finally, the person upstairs finished their business, flushed the toilet and dragged themselves back to their room. Hajime relaxed with a small sigh, and the press of his arms became something more of a hug. Yusuke waited for a heartbeat more and shifted uncomfortably.

“Let me go already,” he whispered, irked.

Hajime shot him a look and smiled. He released his hold and lifted both hands up in a gesture of surrender, which looked positively aggravating paired with his roguish, overconfident smirk. Yusuke moved away immediately.

“What are you even doing here?” He asked angrily. Hajime wouldn’t stop smiling.

“I could ask you the same question,” he whispered, bending to pick up the food he dropped. “Seems like we both had the same idea.”

“I’ll tell Sensei you’re sneaking out.” 

Hajime’s smile widened enough to show his pearly teeth. “Will you?”

“I will,” Yusuke passed him the tangerine. “You were outside. We’re not allowed to go anywhere at night.” 

“And how will you explain your own presence here?” Hajime took the tangerine out of Yusuke’s hand slowly; the younger boy flinched. “...Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Hajime’s eyebrows twitched.

Yusuke scoffed. “You’re an idiot.”

“Oh?” Hajime picked up more fruits and started putting them into the pockets of his hoodie. 

“Yes. This will go bad very quickly. If Sensei smells something rotting, we’re gonna be in trouble. He’ll inspect all the rooms after he finds something in yours.”

Hajime shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, I intend to eat it all today.” 

Yusuke was dumbstruck - that was just _greedy_. 

“Where did you even get it from?” Yusuke hissed. “The shops are closed at this hour. You didn’t steal it, did you?”

Hajime almost laughed. "No, Kitagawa, I didn't steal it. A friend brought it for me, I wasn't out in town, I was merely at the front." He gesticulated to the main door.

"A friend?" Yusuke repeated, doubtful.

"Yes, a friend. You need those. People who care. People outside of this rotten place." Yusuke scoffed. "Don't huff at me. You know as well as I do that a monitored friendship is no friendship at all.”

“Tell that to Natsuhiko-kun. Maybe he’ll stop clinging.” 

Hajime gave an impressed _tsk_. “Touché. But man... someone is jealous.”

“Jealous?” Yusuke narrowed his eyes. “Of Nakanohara?”

“Well, on the second thought, you probably think he’s not good enough to talk to you.” It was Yusuke’s turn to recoil. “Alright, enough of this. Show me yours.”

Yusuke blinked fast. “Come on, don’t play dumb, I know you were getting food. Show me,” Hajime insisted. Very reluctantly, squirming under his burning look, Yusuke moved to the potato chest.

He produced a plastic bag full of bread, biscuits, some thin pepperoni sticks and energy drinks. Hajime wasn’t impressed.

“This… dry practicality of yours is going to kill you one day,” he shook his head, putting an apple and two tangerines into the bag, ignoring Yusuke’s protests. “You need vitamins. You need fiber. This,” he pointed to the energy drinks, “will only make you agitated. It won’t help you to stay awake in the long run. Don’t take everything Sensei says so seriously,” Hajime stuck a carrot into the bag, too.

“If I won’t, then who will?” There was a clear accusation in Yusuke’s voice, and his eyes were cold as steel.

“Look at me,” Hajime said, grabbing Yusuke’s elbow none too gently. “Asceticism will only take you so far. It's the twenty-first century. The monks and hermits don’t create a lot, now do they? If you want to listen to Madarame and become a living archetype of a tortured artist, then look up Baudelaire and stock up on absinth. You’ll still die of liver failure, but… at least you’ll create something that’s yours.” 

Yusuke avoided Hajime’s eyes - he just stared at the offered tangerines, bright orange in the carrier bag. He winced as the older boy shook him urgently, demanding an answer.

“You’re hurting me,” Yusuke whispered, trying to wrench his hand away; Hajime held fast.

“As if pain ever bothered you!” He bridled. “You think I don’t know? Please. It’s obvious you’re cutting yourself.” 

Yusuke shot him a terrified look, trying to discern from his face how much does he know, what did he see, when did he see it, if he’s going to—

“I’m not gonna tell,” Hajime said quickly, and Yusuke stopped struggling, shocked into stillness. “But you have to stop. If you don’t, I’ll tell the school, and _then_ I’ll tell Madarame. You’ll both be in a lot of trouble.”

Yusuke swallowed hard. Hajime let go of Yusuke’s elbow but kept looking at him intently. Yusuke had an impression that if he doesn’t answer, Hajime is never going to let this go, so he found it in himself to nod. He received a stern, suspicious look, but eventually, Hajime just sighed.

“Madarame is... fond of you, you know.”

“Of course he’s fond of me.” Yusuke muttered angrily. “He likes me better than you.” 

“I can see that,” Hajime looked at him with coarse sincerity. “Just… be careful, alright?”

“Careful about what?” Yusuke bridled with as much dignity as he could muster. He was pretty sure it looked pathetic. 

“You know,” Hajime hesitated. “Just… be careful. Of the pressure. Don’t let anybody… I mean, some things should be freely given.”

Yusuke blinked at Hajime in complete confusion.

“...You have no idea what I’m talking about.” Hajime sighed wearily. “Oh, dear. Look. Have you… Have you ever been with a man?”

Yusuke’s eyes widened in panic and he almost clamped both hands on Hajime’s mouth. “ _Don’t!_ ” He whispered, terrified, “Don’t _ever_ talk about that! If Sensei overhears you...”

Hajime’s reaction stupefied Yusuke even further. He didn’t seem scared, he didn’t try to correct his meaning, weave his way out of this nor lie. He just blinked a couple of times, trying to understand something, and observed Yusuke with calm eyes sparkling with sudden curiosity.

“So you know.” Hajime stirred eventually. “You know that he would kick you out without a second thought, only because he doesn’t like who you are. And you’re like me. It’s okay.”

“Hajime, stop.” 

“It’s alright.” Hajime’s eyes turned serious. “You know this, right? You’re perfectly normal. Madarame is a homophobe. What you’re feeling, what you want, is normal.”

“Stop.”

“No, I need to make sure you understand this,” Hajime pulled him close once again, and Yusuke’s sudden gasp was really loud in the dead silence of the atelier. Yusuke’s pupils were blown wide, his breath hitched involuntarily. The vein on the side of his neck was pulsing like mad. 

“...You need a kiss,” Hajime said with a sudden realization that brought back this unnerving smile to his lips. “You need a decent, nice kiss, Yusuke. Do you want me to kiss you?” 

"D-don't you dare," Yusuke said, but it was weak.

"I could kiss you. It's nothing to be ashamed of." Hajime's grip softened, became inviting. Yusuke could feel the warmth radiating from him, as close as they were to each other; he suddenly picked up the scent of his cheap drugstore shampoo. "I'm serious, do you want me to?" He laughed. “Nobody has to know.”  
  
Yusuke just stood there, dumbfounded. He couldn’t move. 

“Okay, forget it,” Hajime shook his head, but Yusuke stirred and instinctively reciprocated the hold, stopping him. Hajime raised his eyebrows in a mute question; Yusuke nodded meekly, not really believing what he’s doing.

Hajime smiled. Nicely. He turned Yusuke around so that his back was pressed to the wall. “Put it down,” he instructed, pointing to the bag; Yusuke slid it to the floor. 

Hajime stepped closer, flung his loose braid over the shoulder. He was just as tall as Yusuke but still seemed to tower above him. 

A pair of hands rested on Yusuke’s hips. His touch burned through the clothes, seeping heat straight to the bones. It felt surreal; the bleak corridor suddenly sparked, and his vision sharpened, fixated on the dark depths of Hajime’s eyes. Working on pure instinct, Yusuke put both hands on his shoulders.

“Relax,” Hajime breathed mischievously into Yusuke’s ear. “...It’s pleasant. Nothing to be afraid of.” Yusuke’s heart was beating so fast that it hurt; Hajime’s nose touched his temple and drew a tiny circle there. “...Close your eyes.”

Yusuke did. 

...How easy he went. Hajime saw the flutter of his eyelids, felt the insecure grip of his fingers, clutching the worn-out knit of the sweater and hovering above the skin, too afraid to really touch. He heard the rapid inhales, noticed the lips opening unprompted, the accommodating tilt of the head - Yusuke was not only curious, he was _starved_ , famished for any kind of affection, ready to drop his defences. 

Hajime almost recoiled. Shunned too many times, mocked by other pupils, deprived of even a pretense of parental care and kept in the dark, Yusuke would agree to so much more if pressed the right way. To know this - to wield such power over another - was scary.

Hajime hesitated for a second too long. Yusuke’s eyes flew open, and he blinked in confusion and shame.

“What…? What did I do?” He demanded, going red on the face. Hajime shook his head.

“No, nothing,” he said quickly, but Yusuke was already stiff in his arms, pushing at him with rigid limbs that turned quite strong. “Yusuke, please, don’t be mad, I just can’t, I don’t want to hurt you,” Hajime tried to reason. Yusuke’s face contorted in an ugly grimace and he backed away so much that his back was flush with the wall.

“ _You mock me,_ ” he spat furiously, burning red, and shoved Hajime away. Snatching the bag with his food, he barrelled out of the mudroom and then ran up the stairs, uncaring of the noise. 

Hajime kicked the ground in frustration. _Fuck!_ He carded both hands through his hair. After a while of uncomfortable hesitation, in which he pondered whether to run after the boy or wait, he sighed in frustration and squatted next to the door. Yusuke’s face, pale and beautiful as he awaited the kiss, flashed under his eyelids; Hajime recalled his eyes, fierce and shining in the dark, like two lonely stars.

**~*~**

It was the second hour of this. Yusuke could not stop shaking. Anger sizzled underneath his skin and crawled in his thoughts; his body felt weird, overheated and cold at the same time. His muscles were tense, unwilling to relax no matter how many times he changed his position. And this pressure, this sickening sweetness pooling in his abdomen... For fuck's sake, _he had to calm down._ He _had to sleep some_ or he wouldn’t be able to work tomorrow.

Damn him... All Hajime meant was to ridicule, to back him into a corner, to see vulnerability and hit him where he’s soft. No more of that, why everyone does that, why is it always _this_ , by default, why can’t he even…

Why can’t he even feel safe in his own head…?! Why would his own body betray him so? 

Angry and too tired to fight this anymore, Yusuke slid his hand down his chest and into his loose pants. He bit the pillow in frustration, smothering the sound that was budding in his throat; he thrust into his fist, tugged harshly, wanting to get it over with. Don’t think about him. _Don’t think about him._

Don't think about those warm hands, holding him like he was something fragile. Don't think about his hair, weaved into a sloppy braid, the strands catching the light with every movement. Don't think about his scent, pleasant and homely and human. 

_Don’t. Think. a b o u t h i m._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what happened to Hajime later on, this is a good moment to check out ["Merry Christmas, Mr. Madarame"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000320)
> 
> But DO. MIND. THE TAGS.
> 
> I think this is the best work I have ever written, though.


End file.
